Angel
by draco-is-the-punk
Summary: Misa Amane used to be loved by everybody. Now she has nobody. Spoilers, M for character death


The room was dark. The whole house was dark. Daylight streamed in through the gaps in the blinds, scorching her closed eyelids. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and her face was tense and panicky like a young child having a nightmare. Nightmare? That was her life. She was waking up.

She sat up, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. She didn't remember going to sleep, but it had done her good. She hadn't slept properly in weeks. Not that she cared what did her good any more. It didn't seem to matter.

The clothes she was wearing were uncharacteristically drab. A baggy pair of leggings. An old cardigan which could have come straight off a batty old librarian. She'd been wearing them for days without bothering to change. Who would see her here? She had nobody to dress up for but herself. Her feet were bare and dirty, and her face was bare of make-up. Colourless. Plain. Her blonde hair lay limp around her face, framing her gaunt features. She had always tried to eat well, and keep healthy. A healthy body was a happy body, and she had been happy. Had she? She was sure that she had once. But now it was gone. The star had gone out. The sparkle in her eyes had been quenched. She wasn't happy, so why bother to stay healthy? It wasn't as if she needed the money any more. She had more than enough saved up from the photos and the television adverts and the posing with a dreamy smile to make the public adore her. Which they did, of course. She was what they wanted. Sweet, cute, pretty, bubbly. She played the part of course. She giggled and she played her way through each interview with a secret smile and a glint in her eyes. She sang each song directly to her listeners. They raved about her. They pinned her frozen images on their walls. She'd got so excited at each call from her agent. Bimbo. Airhead. She'd wanted to be a princess, to drink in that life. She'd wanted to be loved by everybody.

Love? What did she know of love? A poor orphan, alone in the world. No parents, no friends. Who could blame her for wanting to be loved? But the masses of fans weren't enough. She wanted a love that was just for her. All hers. All his.

Him. She could remember the first time she saw him. Silent in a crowd but still standing out. Smart and thoughtful. He'd love her of course. Everybody loved her. How could he not? Easily. She worried endlessly over meeting him properly for the first time and even when she plucked up the courage, it had been a disappointment. She had done something wrong. She wasn't in his league, of course she wasn't. He was a genius, and she was dizzy and idiotic. His friends treated her as if she was special. He was cold. He didn't care. She knew it wouldn't be easy. But she was prepared to earn his love.

Had she? He'd proposed to her, hadn't he? He'd said he loved her. She'd believed him, with all her heart. She'd wanted to believe him. She refused to listen to those who insisted he was using her. Why would he? If he wanted the fame, then why keep their relationship quiet? He was powerful, and he didn't need her money. She was powerful too, in her own way. Stubborn, that's all. She had to be. She was brave, and she was strong. Was. Once. Not any more. Now she was so weak and frail that she felt as though she could break. It was his fault. He'd broken her. No, it wasn't his fault. Of course it wasn't. She was being selfish and cruel. It was never his fault.

A dizzy trip down the catwalk. Turn. Pout. Walk back. Keep your eyes wide. Leave them wanting more. Her eyes were red and sore from spilling tears. She didn't have any tears left. Empty. A raw, aching hole. She missed him so much. There was nobody to miss her. Her fans would miss her. Why had she gone? Why had she left them? Was it true that she'd given up her career for good? When would she be back? But they would not cry out for long. She'd be forgotten, her posters torn down to be replaced with the next idol. Her albums would crack from age, or be heartlessly thrown away as people grew out of her whiny melodies. They would cease to care. They would cease to remember.

Memories. Welcoming him back from work as he collapsed exhausted onto the couch. Cooking his meals herself, and beaming when he acknowledged a new dish she had mastered. Him phoning her at work with his concerns and worries. He did love her, whatever anybody may have thought. They didn't see him the way that she did. They saw the cold, unfeeling young man who could bend anybody into doing as he wanted. She saw his elated smile when he was happy, and she comforted him in the few times that he needed her support. He did need her, she was sure of it. He came back to her each night. He was faithful. He was.

Lies. Talk of a beautiful younger woman. Smart and successful. A worthy match, they said. She refused to believe. She confronted him one night, and his anger terrified her. He had been angry before, but never this badly. She knew how wrong she had been to upset him like this. How could she have doubted him? It was unthinkable. She laughed at the rumours, staying as strong as ever. A ray of sunshine. Glossy and bright as always. At least, on the outside. She was still young, still pretty enough to turn heads and gain flurries of interest from passers-by, even those who didn't recognise her from the magazines and television. She was far better than this 'other woman.' He loved her, he meant it. He hadn't changed, or if he had then she had ignored it. If he came back later than usual, then so what? He was a busy man, and his work kept him away from her sometimes. The idea of a secret mistress was laughable. He might use this stupid girl from his work. He might flirt to make her spill her secrets so he would succeed. He didn't love anybody but his adoring wife. He promised.

Not that it mattered now. She didn't have him. Nobody did. She hadn't even been there when fate snatched him away. Blithely going on with her own pointless existence, she had never entertained the concept of losing him. She had known his work was dangerous, she'd read the horror stories on the news, but never once had she imagined that it would happen to him, to them. The phone call had changed everything. One of his friends delivered the news, a man who was usually jovial and good natured but was now sombre and grave. He had been injured, he might be dead, she should hurry. Which she did, flying out of the house with the phone left upside down on the floor. But she knew in her heart that she would be too late. As she rushed into the hospital, her heart thumping painfully in her chest and her shrill voice shouting out to be taken to him, she knew it was over. His life. Her life.

What was she without him? A shadow, a ghost. It had been months now, and she was still broken. She still saw his reflection in the mirrors, a hint of a smile on his handsome face. Gone when she spun around; a trick of the mind. She was a void, emotionless. She could not even remember love in itself, but she knew that it was love that was tearing her apart. That had already torn her apart. She had never been anything, it was all a pretence. She convinced the public into thinking that she was a star. She saw that now. It had never been her that they loved, but an illusion.

The box had been pulled from under her bed, and she was pulling out the pictures in a mad frenzy. Smiles, eyes, lipstick. The same glazed look, staring blankly into space. No expression. She wielded her scissors in one hand, slashing spitefully through her own face, glossy confetti fluttering to the floor. Over and over again she hacked wildly at her own image, fuelled by loathing and hatred. Of what? Herself? Yes. What she had been, and what she had never been. She had never been herself, that was for sure. She had been hiding behind this _mask_, her beauty and her actions. Her staff told her what to do, how to act, how to play the little girl to get whatever she wanted. She had forgotten what she was in herself, so used to pretending. That was why he was so important to her. He brought out her real self.

She was sitting amongst the fragments of her life, her eyes still dry although she felt as though she should be crying. The scissors scythed through midair as she threw herself on her stomach to retrieve a box of fan letters. She flicked through them, glaring with malice at each one. All the same. They used to make her so happy, but now she did not even care. Her scissors ripped through the paper, clattering to the floor as she threw them away from her. She knew what she was going to do, and she was filled with a purpose that she had not felt for a long time. It filled her empty body, making her get to her feet and go into her bathroom.

She took a shower, massaging her hair with sweet smelling shampoo and humming under her breath. The noise sounded strange, distorted. Water was beating down on her head, washing away weeks of grime from her skin. She hadn't felt unclean, and she didn't particularly feel much better. But she imagined it was a show, all another act. She beamed at herself in the mirror as she sat in her bedroom, bundled up in a fluffy towel. She turned on her desk lamp to see herself properly. The smile wasn't very convincing; she'd have to do better than that. She brushed her teeth sitting on her bed, swallowing the paste as she had nowhere to spit it out. Her teeth gleamed white, and she bared them in a silly grin, practising her smile until she was sure it was right. Next for her hair. She ran it through her fingers, singing softly under her breath as she waved hot air over it with her hairdryer. When it was dry, she brushed it until it crackled with static and shone in the mirror. Then she crossed to her wardrobe, and found her favourite outfit.

She pulled it on, twirling in the middle of the floor and tapping the heels of her stilettos as she danced back to the mirror. Still not right. Make-up. She found a lipstick, painting her dry lips crimson. Her hands deftly smeared powder and brushed colours onto her skin just as she used to do every day. Her dull face blossomed into beauty, almost as beautiful as she used to be. She covered over the dark circles beneath her eyes, and smoothed away every sign of imperfection. She hung a necklace around her neck, and pushed bracelets onto her wrists. The only ring she wore was her wedding band; a simple silver circle. She had not taken it off once since her wedding, and she was not going to do so now. She locked the flat door, laughing quietly as she stepped into the lift.

The air was cold as she stepped out onto the roof, but it did not matter. A jacket would have looked wrong with her dress, and she wanted to look her best. For her audience. The city was teaming with people rushing to work, and not one of them noticed her standing alone on the top of the tower block. Yet. Her blue eyes squinted at the grey sky and her lips parted in a slow sigh. She realised that she had clasped her hands in front of her chest as though in prayer, and wondered what she could say. She did not want to speak to God. He was her God. Her angel, who would take her away from her cruel lonely existence. People had likened her to an angel, with her halo of blonde hair and her innocence. She smiled, stretching her arms out like wings. Her dress billowed in the wind, and her hair whipped around her face as she leant into the wind. She was an angel. She was flying.


End file.
